It was that of a woman who sat on an ottoman
in the smallest room which was almost empty. Her companion was a small,
vivacious man with a gray imperial, and the red ribbon in his buttonhole,
to whose continuous stream of talk, eked out with meridional gestures,
she had the air of being listlessly resigned. Her dress, a marvel of
discretion, its colour the yellow of old ivory, was of some very rich
and stiff stuff cut square to her neck; that, and her great black hair,
clustered to a crimson rose at the top of her head, made the pallor of her
face a thing to marvel at. Her beauty was at once sombre and illuminating,
and youthful no less. The woman of thirty: but her complexion, and her
arms, which were bare, were soft in texture as a young girl's.
I made my way as well as I could for the crowd, to my hostess, listened,
with what patience I might, to some polite praise of my playing, and made
my request.
'Mrs. Destrier, I have an immense favour to ask; introduce me to Madame
Romanoff!'
She gave me a quick, shrewd smile; then I remembered stories of her
intimate quaintness.
'My dear young man! I have no objection. Only I warn you, she is not
conversational; you will make no good of it, and you will be disappointed;
perhaps that will be best.
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